


Let It Snow

by AnaliseGrey



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fluff, Gen, He also needs to learn to have a sense of self-preservation, I guess OT3 if you really squint at it, Illness, Neal needs to learn to use his words, Running Hot, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 00:56:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8869525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: Winter in NYC is not the winter wonderland all the songs talk about. Neal falls ill, and Peter sorts it out, as he often does.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some of Neal's experiences may be a teeny bit autobiographical...in my defense, my room was usually 5 degrees colder than the rest of the house I was staying in at the time, so I just assumed I was cold because I was cold, not because I was running a fever. Whoops?

Neal didn’t actually dislike winter. He had enjoyed skiing the couple of times he’d tried it, and the romantic part of him liked the idea of using the cold as an excuse to cuddle in front of a roaring fire (not that he really _needed_ an excuse to do that, but it always made him feel better to have a backup plan even if it was totally unnecessary).

No, it wasn’t winter that Neal disliked. It was winter in _New York City_ , specifically. All the pretty white fluffy snow that made winter so wonderful had more often than not turned to brownish black ice-crusted goop by the time he was allowed out of the office to enjoy it, and the biting cold this winter didn’t help his opinion much. The wind kept getting in through the windows and cracks of his loft, and it tended to leave the space barely livable at best of times, and downright frigid at the worst.

If the loft felt particularly chilly this evening, well he put that up to having stepped into what turned out to be an ankle deep puddle of frozen slush on his walk home. He added an extra blanket to his bed, cranked the electric one sandwiched between the sheets already, and took a deliciously hot shower. Feeling marginally better, he crawled into bed and was asleep almost instantly.

***

The next morning dawned bright and clear, though Neal wasn’t enjoying it. He didn’t feel his normally chipper self, and would have been ok with just turning over and going back to sleep. Dragging himself up from bed, he showered, got dressed, and made himself a cup of tea instead of his regular Italian roast. Sipping it made him feel mildly better, and he sighed with contentment at the feel of the warm mug in his hands. When his phone buzzed to let him know Peter was waiting outside, he was almost tempted to tell Peter he wasn’t coming in. Neal wasn’t in the mood for the ‘cowboy up’ lecture that would likely follow, especially since there didn’t seem to be anything especially wrong with him. He got up and put his mug in the sink, and donned his overcoat and his hat, and he was out the door.

On the ride to the Federal building, Peter kept glancing over at him.

“What’s wrong?”

Neal flicked his eyes over from where he’d been staring out the window to focus on Peter instead, sliding one of his more innocent smiles into place.

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“You’re being too quiet. I don’t trust you when you’re this quiet. So what’s going on?”

Rolling his eyes, Neal turned back to look out the window again. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re paranoid. Getting as bad as Mozz in your old age, Peter.”

Peter snorted as he maneuvered the car into his space in the parking garage at Federal Plaza. Shutting off the engine, Peter unfastened his seat belt and turned to face the other man. “You’re sure nothing is wrong?”

Undoing his own seat belt, Neal turned and smiled a bit wider. “I’m sure, Peter. And if there were something wrong, I’d tell you, I promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

***

Half an hour past lunch, and Neal was starting to think he really should  have stayed home. As the morning progressed, tell tale signs of illness had started to make themselves known: aching joints, sore throat, and a bone-deep chill. He’d gotten soup for lunch when everyone ordered in Chinese, and Peter had given him a patented Agent Burke look. Neal had shrugged, smiled, and made some comment he couldn’t completely remember about wontons being a hidden delicacy of American-Chinese cuisine. Peter was in a meeting now, and Neal took a few minutes to go to the bathroom and splash water on his face, hoping it would help. The view that met him in the mirror wasn’t promising. The reflection that looked back at him looked tired and pale except for the two bright spots of color high on his cheeks that screamed ‘fever’ at him. Poking at his neck, Neal winced; yup, swollen glands. Hoping for the best, but expecting nothing good at this point, Neal opened his mouth wide as he could, and tilted his head back, glancing down his nose to try to see down his own throat.

Fuck.

Trudging back to his desk, he glanced at his clock. Peter’s meeting was scheduled until 4pm. He could make it that long, he was pretty certain. There was no way he was interrupting a meeting of department heads just to tell Peter he had a sore throat. He had standards, damnit.

By the time he saw the department heads leaving Hughes’ office, it was already 4:15, and Neal had been actively fighting the urge to use his desk as a bed. Standing up to make his way to Peter’s office, he winced, joints and muscles twinging at him. He cursed each stair as he climbed up to the office, and took a moment in Peter’s doorway to collect himself.

“Peter?”

Neal didn’t think he sounded bad enough to warrant the look Peter gave him.

“I just wanted to let you know I’m heading home...I don’t feel so hot.”

Neal was always amazed at the varying levels of ‘frown’ that Peter could manage. Right now, Neal figured he was somewhere near the ‘dammit, Neal’ frown. Not especially annoyed; more worried but with a pinch of aggravation. Standing up from his desk, Peter strode over to the younger man and Neal flinched back a bit when Peter put the back of his hand on Neal’s forehead.

“Oh, I’d beg to differ. How long have you been running a fever, Neal? And don’t bullshit me.”

Neal took a moment to try to think back, only to find his memory an unpleasant and mildly distressing mush. “Potentially since lunch?”

Peter’s frown went from ‘dammit, Neal’ to a scowl that Neal really didn’t want to try to translate.

“And you decided to wait to say something until now. Why, exactly? Did you or did you not promise, _just this morning_ , in fact, to tell me if something was wrong?”

If he hadn’t already been flushed with fever, Neal might have blushed under Peter’s intense scrutiny.

“I, uh...I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting.”

The look of incredulous disbelief on Peter’s face almost made Neal feel better. Almost. Heading back to his desk, Peter started collecting files and stuffing them into his briefcase, every few seconds sending looks at Neal that ranged from worry to irritation to disbelief and back. Grabbing his coat and briefcase, Peter steered Neal out the door, and locked it behind him.

“We’re going home. I’m going to let El mother the hell out of you, and you’re going to lay there and like it. Understood?”

Neal did a quick risk assessment in his head, closed his eyes, and hoped for the best.

“I think maybe I should see a doctor first.”

That stopped Peter dead in his tracks. Peter had never seen Neal sick before, but even when injured, Neal had wanted to stay as far away from doctors as he could. Turning so he was facing the conman, Peter narrowed his eyes.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Neal tried to gulp, but ended up half-wincing instead. “Um...from the look of my throat I think maybe I should get tested for...for strep...”

The end of his sentence had ended up very quiet as Neal became incredibly interested in the floor. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and counted to ten; he then counted to ten again for good measure. When he opened his eyes again, he decided the best revenge he could get would be to tell El exactly what had transpired, and let her deal with his charge. In the meantime though, they had to get Neal to a doctor. Turning back to the elevator, Peter put a hand on Neal’s elbow and ushered him along, stopping just long enough to get the younger man’s coat and hat. As they were waiting for the elevator, Peter had to ask.

“And how do you know you should be checked for strep?”

A small flicker of Neal’s usual smile moved across his face. “I played a doctor on tv once. That and the rather impressive red streaks and white spots sort of clued me in.”

Peter looked heavenward, as if hoping for divine guidance. None seemed to be forthcoming, but the elevator did show up, so he counted that as a win.

***

By the time Neal got called back to be seen by a doctor, Peter noticed the other man was having a distinct problem staying upright. He’d gone back to the exam room with him (being Neal’s medical proxy came in handy sometimes), and was a bit unnerved to see Neal curl up into a ball on the exam table the first chance he got. When the nurse checked his temperature, she whistled, which Peter assumed wasn’t good. She confirmed that when she showed him the thermometer. 103.2०F. She assured Peter the doctor would be in soon and had shut the curtain behind her on her way out.

Sighing, Peter moved to stand near Neal’s head, and reached out to ruffle the younger man’s hair. Neal made a small noise in his throat, but didn’t otherwise react. As the doctor came in, Peter excused himself momentarily to call El. After filling her in on the basics, he promised to let her know if anything changed and hung up, heading back to the exam room. Neal was upright, though he didn’t look very happy about it, and the doctor was in the process of filling a syringe from a small bottle. Glancing over at Peter, the doctor smiled.

“It looks like he’ll live though he doesn’t feel like it at the moment. This is one of the nastiest looking cases of strep I’ve seen in awhile. I won’t be able to confirm it until the test comes back, but from the looks of his throat, I’m going to start treating as if it's what he’s got.” The doctor finished filling the syringe, and set the bottle down.

“We just gave him a high dose of ibuprofen for his fever, and we’re giving him a prescription for antibiotics, but given how hard and fast this hit him, I’m going to give Neal an injection of antibiotics as well to give him a jump start. If you could help him up for a moment? Unfortunately this needs to go into a large muscle, so...”

Understanding dawned on Peter, and he actually felt bad for the kid. He took the extra couple of steps over to Neal and helped him slide off the exam table to a wobbly standing position, then as clinically as he could, helped Neal with his belt buckle, and lowered the back of the younger man’s pants. The doctor leaned in- “just a quick pinch”- and then it was over, and Peter was helping Neal get re-buttoned. Though from the look of it, Peter wasn’t sure Neal had actually felt the needle.

Tossing the needle into the sharps container on the counter, the doctor snapped his gloves off. “We’re going to want him to wait 15 minutes, just to make sure he doesn’t have a bad reaction to the injection. After that, if he’s ok, you can take him home. Lots of fluids, plenty of sleep, and the course of antibiotics. Even if he’s feeling better towards the end, he still needs to finish them all; don’t want this making a comeback. I’ll be back in a little bit to check on him. In the meantime, have a seat.”

The doctor left the room, and Peter turned to look at his charge, once more toppled onto his side on the exam table and curled around a pillow the nurse had brought him. With his hat off and his hair falling into his face, Peter marveled at how young Neal looked. The other man was rarely still, usually fiddling with something even when seated at a desk working, or doodling something on a scrap of paper while thinking. Now he was just laying there, eyes closed and breathing softly, likely sleeping, Peter thought. It was a bit disconcerting how still he was.

The nurse came back a few minutes later to check on Neal, and declared him fit to leave. Peter helped him slip stiffly into his coat, and set Neal’s hat on his head before ushering him out the door.

The doctor had thankfully called ahead to the pharmacy, and Neal didn’t wake up from where he was dozing against the car door when Peter stopped to pick up his antibiotics. Once back in the car, Peter called ahead to let El know they were on their way, and made his way home to Brooklyn.

***

When Neal next opened his eyes, he was confused. He was in a bed, but it wasn’t _his_ bed. Blinking, he looked around and after moment or two recognized the Burke’s bedroom. He tried to sit up, but there were piles of blankets on him, and he was just too wrung out to bother with crawling out from underneath. He felt warm for the first time in awhile, and his joints didn’t ache as much. His throat still hurt like hell, but if he had been as sick as he thought he’d been (sick enough to end up in the Burke’s bed for heaven’s sake), then he had a feeling it was going to be sore for awhile yet.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

Neal turned his head and saw El bustling through the doorway, a tray in her hands. Neal made the effort to struggle out from the pile of blankets as El grabbed a bed table from against the wall, settling it over Neal’s legs before setting the tray she’d been carrying on top of it. A mug of lightly steaming tea with what smelled like honey, and smaller bowls holding what looked like mashed potatoes, chocolate pudding, and vanilla ice cream crowded the small space. Neal looked up at El in question. “I’m not sure I can eat all that.”

El smiled with a small shrug of her shoulders. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I thought I’d bring you a few things that shouldn’t bother your throat too much. Eat what you can, and if you don’t finish, or something bothers you too much, don’t worry about it. We just want to get something into you.”

Neal frowned. “We?”

“Yes, _we_.” Peter stepped into the doorway, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorjamb as he watched El fuss with the food tray.

“When you’re feeling better, we’re going to have an in-depth discussion about what constitutes a medical emergency, and when it’s appropriate to interrupt meetings. Because this? This was one of those instances.”

El finished settling the tray across Neal's lap and to his surprise leaned in and pressed her lips against his forehead. Before he could figure out how to respond, she leaned back with a pleased smile on her face. “I think his temperature has come down a bit. Much better!”

“Well it only had down to go.” Peter grumbled. “He could have fried an egg on his head before.”

Neal picked up a spoon and decided to go with the pudding first, happy to sit and listen to the couple bicker gently at each other, and decided that maybe winter in New York wasn’t so terrible after all.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I am terrible at titles. Sorry.  
> 2) I had completely forgotten I had this sitting in my Google docs folder, sitting there mostly completed. Decided to finish it up and post it before I thought better of it. I'm not sure I'm a fan of the ending, but then I always have the most trouble with endings.  
> 3) Not betaed, so any mistakes are my own. If you see a typo/missing word/spelling whatsit, please let me know (in a POLITE and CONSIDERATE fashion), and I'll do my best to fix it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
